


sacrifice ain't that hard

by alamorn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Loyalty and discussions thereof, Post-Black Panther (2018), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: It was a long and winding path to Wakanda, but Natasha was in no hurry.





	sacrifice ain't that hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tamoline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/gifts).



It was a long and winding path to Wakanda, but Natasha was in no hurry. She dyed her hair after the third time she was recognized and took her time in small towns that moved at a different pace from the rest of the world. She hitchhiked her way across continents.

It was almost fun.

When she made it to Wakanda’s borders, she settled in to wait. Instinct told her not to push farther uninvited, and she could hardly make her way unnoticed. The family she stayed with were curiously well-spoken in English for those with no need to be, and what they did not know in English, they could work out from her smattering of Swahili, though they had no reason for that, either.

Similarly, she had no reason to point that out. Wakanda was not what it seemed, but then, who or what was? Any country that put the crown prince in a vibranium suit had its secrets, and she would not get caught out prying at the edges, whether those edges were spies or something else.

Her hosts, early warning system that they were, had pieces of technology better than anything she’d seen in mass-production. Some of it was hidden better than others. She didn’t ask, and she did her best not pry, though habit was a hard beast to break.

Natasha was a guest, after all, and tired of making enemies of friends. Besides, she didn’t know how well known it was that she’d tased their prince — no, he was king now, wasn’t he? Either way, she had no interest in asking uncomfortable questions or seeking uncomfortable answers.

It took only a week before a sleek ship landed in front of the hut, scattering goats before it. She stood faux-easily from where she’d been weeding under the direction of the youngest daughter, a gap-toothed six-year-old who communicated mostly with smiles and pantomime.

As she slapped the dirt off her hands, the ship opened and Steve descended, followed by a tall, dark-skinned woman in the same uniform as T’Challa’s bodyguards from the Summit.

“Natasha!” Steve said, clasping her hand with a broad grin. “You look different blonde.”

“It was time for a change,” she said, studying the woman. Her stance would have said _warrior_ even if she hadn’t been carrying a spear, which was curiously low tech for someone with a ship like that.

“This is Okoye,” Steve said, tilting his head to the woman. “She’s the head of the Dora Milaje — did I get it right that time, Okoye?”

“Ever closer,” she said, white teeth flashing in an easy smile. “Of course, I already know who you are, Natasha Romanoff.”

“Who doesn’t, at this point?” Natasha asked, with a smile that almost felt right. Her time on the road had turned her rusty, much as she’d enjoyed it. “You didn’t have to rush to pick me up, Abahi is a wonderful host. I’d hate you to have to skim my files.”

“We didn’t,” Okoye said, smiling when Natasha glanced doubtfully at her. It took longer than a week to get through her files. “Come, we are distressing the goats.”

“Let me thank my hosts,” she said, and left the two of them behind to crouch before her small taskmaster. “Thank you for your time,” she said, then repeated herself clumsily in Swahili.

The girl grinned and stuck her tongue out. Natasha solemnly returned the gesture and rose to leave. The rest of the family was out doing their work, and she was sure they would hear where she got to from those matching bracelets they all wore in Wakanda.

The ride was smoother than any she’d had before, and Steve laughed at her when she flinched from the flight through the holograph of the canopy. Okoye said nothing from her pilot’s seat, but when Natasha glanced over there was a serene smile on her face.

 

Natasha did not settle easily into Wakanda. She was given a room near Steve and Sam — Wanda had already left, Steve told her, shaking his head, and Sergeant Barnes, the Winter Soldier, was on ice, Wakandan neurosurgeons working to remove the scaffolding of his programming and his triggers as if they were tumors.

When she was not in her room, she was in meetings with Steve and the leadership of Wakanda, arguing both their case and hers, separated as they were by arrival date. When she was not in meetings, she was wandering the palace and grounds, occasionally curtailed or redirected by the red-suited Dora.

It was not as restful as her journey _to_ Wakanda. Being seen and known as Natasha Romanoff, and all that entailed still exhausted her, it seemed.

“Think of it as a vacation!” Sam said. Sam had a new set of wings created by the genius princess and seemed to be having the time of his life. “Have you seen their rhinos? They’re _huge_.”

“I think all this hot air is going to your head,” Natasha said. “Let me — yeah, it’s definitely bigger.”

Sam laughed and batted her away.

Steve spent long hours in meetings, trying to reassure the Wakandans of their lack of liability if anyone discovered they were hosting an extra-national strike team made up of escaped criminals.

Natasha’s meetings were different. _She_ did not have a reputation for loyalty or honor, after all. T’Challa seemed to have forgiven her for electrocuting him, but his mother had not, though she tied it in to concerns over how quickly Natasha changed alliances.

As Natasha had not yet found a satisfactory replacement North for SHIELD in her moral compass, she understood the concerns.

As restless as she was, it took her only a few days to find the room where the Dora Milaje practiced in the mornings. They did not hide their routines from her watchful eye, and she could not have replicated them even if she had thought to. The Dora fought in units, with more reliance on strength than Natasha used herself.

After three days of quiet watching, Okoye gestured her to the front of the room. “Shall we see how a Widow’s training compares?”

“I’m getting the feeling you just want to put me on my back,” Natasha said, letting the flirtation curl heavy on the words. It was habit, a sounding of the depths, but the way Okoye cocked her eyebrow…

Well. A seduction could make the time pass faster. And Okoye was so deliciously _noble_.

Natasha, on the other hand, had been called many things, including at the meetings that consumed much of her days now, but never noble. She opened with a jab at Okoye’s throat. Her only hope to win was to take Okoye down fast. The jab slid past as Okoye whirled out of the way, knuckles scraping over the rings of a necklace too hard to be gold.

Before she could retract her arm, Okoye grabbed her wrist and shoulder. Natasha flipped into the throw, landing in a roll and coming up quickly and lashing out with a sweep of her leg that meant Okoye missed the second leg coming at her stomach. It landed with a satisfying weight, but Okoye took it with barely a flinch, sliding back and catching her leg. Natasha was expecting the twist when it came, and rolled, a little too slow, and pain flared in her knee. She kipped up, using the force to send herself into Okoye, trying to get her legs around Okoye’s neck — if she could do that, she could take her down.

But Okoye was ready, and Natasha ended up across the room, almost rolling into the legs of the watching Dora Milaje.

She groaned as she stood, feigning at slapping off some dust. “You hit like a freight train,” she said.

“Thank you,” Okoye said. She was beaming, a warm, open expression. “I would rather not have a broken neck. You understand.”

“Of course. Totally reasonable.”

“Are you ready to continue?”

“Ready for you?” Natasha winked. Her smile wasn’t a lie this time. “Always.” She crooked her fingers, _come hither_ , and Okoye laughed and led with a low kick and a one-two punch.

After, feeling well bruised, the restlessness pummeled out of her, she waited by the door for Okoye to finish talking to a pair of young Dora.

When Okoye finally made her way over, Natasha batted her lashes and said, “Show a girl the city, General?”

“I have a job, you know,” Okoye said, but beckoned Natasha to fall into step next to her.

“A very important job, at that. But where’s the fun in duty if you don’t shirk it every once in a while?”

Okoye’s face became a little more closed. She’d misjudged. Natasha was shocked at her own disappointment, and found herself fumbling to correct it, an amateur’s mistake. “Sorry,” she said. “Bad joke.”

“You’re forgiven,” Okoye said. “Though I don’t know if I’ll treat you to vitumbua anymore.”

Natasha’s mouth quirked. “You’re not so bad, soldier.”

“How generous of you, spy.” She’d gotten it right this time. Okoye’s amusement lit her eyes.

“Steve’s increased my tolerance for you noble sorts, you’ll have to thank him.”

“Do you forget I’ve read your files?” Okoye asked as they passed from the palace to the grounds.

Natasha sucked in a breath of the hot, wet air. Too much time here would chase the ghost of Russian winter from her the way America never had — she’d sweat it out, if nothing else. “I don’t know what you mean.”

With Okoye leading, they weren’t stopped on their way. “Some might call your actions with the Winter Soldier and Hydra noble.”

Natasha’s best false smile slipped into place. “I’m not one of them.”

“Ah.” Okoye let it go, and they walked in silence for a while. When they approached the market, she said, “I served Killmonger when he took the throne. You destroyed SHIELD the moment you understood the rot at their core.”

“Well,” Natasha said, “I should have you at the table with me.”

“I have made my position clear,” Okoye said evenly, stepping closer to Natasha as they entered the press of people. Their elbows touched, and Okoye guided her through the crowd with light pressure. “Queen Ramonda merely likes to be thorough.”

“A good trait in a monarch,” Natasha agreed. Warmth was spreading within her, from where Okoye pressed against her, and from some point deep in her chest. In the late morning heat, it was almost uncomfortable. Or maybe it was being seen and known again, though _warmth_ was not what she associated with that.

Okoye paused to order the vitumbua. They glistened with oil and powdered sugar smeared over Natasha’s fingers as she took the wax paper wrapper. She waited for Okoye to look at her before she took a bite, making a show of it.

“Oh,” she said, “wow, that’s good.” She wiped the sugar off her lower lip with her thumb and licked it off, keeping eye contact the whole time. She couldn’t tell if Okoye blushed, but her gaze certainly fell to Natasha’s mouth.

They kept walking, elbows still touching. After a few bites, Natasha said, “I’m not one for absolution, but you did the right thing in the end. People tell me that’s what matters.”

“And what do you believe? What do you tell yourself to sleep at night?”

Natasha laughed, turning to face Okoye. There was sugar on her chin and lips, and Natasha reached up to grasp Okoye’s chin and wipe it away. Then she leaned up and kissed the last traces from Okoye’s lips.

Okoye did not so much relax into the kiss as open to it. Her mouth, her posture, her arms, all of it welcomed Natasha in, to visit, if not to stay.

When she pulled back, Natasha winked. “Loyalty to yourself gets a bad rap, but I recommend it.”

Okoye looked at her a long while, and then smiled and said, “Everything must start somewhere, I suppose.”


End file.
